By the time dawn broke, both James and Lily were exhausted and increasingly concerned about what Harry's dream might actually mean.
"I'm sending a message to Hades," Lily announced once they were alone in the kitchen.
"Great," James said, pouring his fourth cup of coffee. "Nothing says 'successful parenting' like speed-dialing the God of Death because your kindergartener had a nightmare."
"It wasn't a nightmare. It was a prophetic vision."
"Oh, well that's *so much better*. 'Honey, the good news is it wasn't a nightmare, the bad news is our son can see the future and the future is *terrifying*.'"
"Do you want to help or do you want to keep being sarcastic?"
"I'm actually capable of both. It's one of my few talents."
"Your *only* talent."
"Hey, I also do that thing where I—"
"James."
"Right. Focusing. Hades. Prophetic doom. Got it."
Hades appeared within the hour, manifesting in their living room with the kind of efficient directness that suggested he'd recognized the urgency in Lily's summons and possibly already knew what it was about.
"Prophetic dream?" he asked immediately, like a cosmic doctor diagnosing a common cold.
"How did you—" James started.
"Harry's divine heritage makes him susceptible to prophetic visions, particularly those connected to the underworld," Hades explained, settling onto their couch with the casual confidence of someone who'd done this exact conversation seventeen thousand times before. "I've been monitoring for signs that his abilities were developing in that direction. The fact that you summoned me urgently this morning—while looking like you haven't slept in days, I might add—suggested one had occurred."
"You've been *monitoring* for this and didn't mention it?" James said, his voice climbing an octave. "That feels like information we should have had. Like, maybe in a memo. Or a text. Or literally any form of communication."
"I mentioned it to Harry last week during training," Hades replied calmly, because apparently the Lord of the Dead didn't understand the concept of parental anxiety. "I assumed he would relay the information to you."
There was a long pause.
"He's *five*," Lily said, with the kind of dangerous calm that James recognized as the precursor to a lecture that would strip paint off walls. "Five-year-olds are not reliable information relay systems. Five-year-olds can't remember to put their shoes on before going outside. You thought he'd remember to tell us about developing prophetic abilities?"
"That's a fair point," Hades conceded, and James was impressed that the God of Death actually looked slightly embarrassed. "I should have spoken to you directly. My apologies."
"You know what?" James said, because apparently he'd reached the point of exhaustion where he was willing to critique actual deities. "For a being with infinite cosmic awareness, you're surprisingly bad at phone calls."
"I don't have a phone."
"It's a *metaphor*, Hades."
"Is it though?"
"Can we please focus?" Lily interrupted, before James could start explaining metaphors to the personification of death. "Harry. Prophetic dream. Purple fire. Potential apocalypse. Those are the priorities here."
"Right," James said. "Sorry. Got distracted by the cosmic communication failures."
"It's fine," Hades said, in the tone of someone who was absolutely keeping score of every sarcastic comment for later. "Let's just focus on Harry now."
"Thank you," Lily said pointedly.
Hades listened carefully while James and Lily explained what Harry had experienced, asking clarifying questions and taking notes in a small black leather journal that James was ninety percent certain was bound in something ominous.
"Dreams like this are common in demigods," Hades said once he'd heard the full account. "Prophetic dreams, warnings about potential futures, sometimes even divine messages filtered through the sleeping mind like the world's worst game of telephone. Harry's connection to me as his divine grandfather probably makes him particularly susceptible to messages from the underworld realm."
"So this is definitely not just a normal nightmare," Lily said.
"Almost certainly not," Hades confirmed. "Normal nightmares don't involve purple fire, multiple time periods, or ominous warnings about choices. Those are all pretty clear indicators of divine messaging."
"Great," James muttered. "Our son is receiving cosmic spam mail."
"That's... actually not a terrible analogy," Hades said thoughtfully.
"Really? Because I was being sarcastic."
"Yes, but it's still accurate. Divine messages often have that quality of being both important and utterly incomprehensible until the moment when they're suddenly relevant."
"Like spam mail promising you'll win a million dollars if you just click this link, except the link is your actual future and the million dollars is a metaphor for terrible life choices?"
"James," Lily said. "Stop."
"I'm processing through humor!"
"Process quieter."
"That's not how processing works."
"The only way to know for certain what the dream means," Hades continued, diplomatically ignoring their bickering, "is to talk to Harry directly. Prophetic dreams are personal—the symbols and scenarios that appear are unique to the dreamer's subconscious interpretation of whatever message is being transmitted. I need to hear exactly what he experienced, in his own words."
"So you need to interview our traumatized five-year-old about his prophetic vision," James summarized.
"I prefer 'gently discuss the dream's symbolic content,' but yes."
"Does it pay better if you use more words?"
"James!"
"What? I'm just asking!"
They woke Harry up to explain that Hades wanted to discuss his dream, which James knew was probably not ideal in terms of maintaining healthy sleep schedules, but seemed necessary given the whole "potential future apocalypse" situation.
Harry sat up in bed looking considerably more rested than he had a few hours earlier, though the evidence of lingering fear was still apparent in how his eyes darted between his parents and the door like he was planning escape routes.
"Hey, buddy," James said, sitting on the edge of the bed. "So, remember your dream?"
"The scary one?"
"Yeah, the scary one. Hades wants to talk to you about it."
Harry's eyes widened. "Did I do something wrong?"
"No!" Lily said quickly. "No, sweetheart, you didn't do anything wrong. Hades just wants to understand your dream better."
"Because understanding nightmares is his *thing*," James added. "It's like... his hobby. Some people collect stamps, Hades analyzes prophetic visions."
"That's not quite—" Hades started.
"Close enough," James interrupted. "The point is, Harry, you're not in trouble. We just need you to tell Hades what you remember about the dream, okay?"
"Okay," Harry said uncertainly.
"Hello, Harry," Hades said, settling onto the edge of the bed with careful grace that James had to admit was pretty impressive for someone who usually dealt with dead people. "Your parents mentioned you had a very intense dream. I'd like to hear about it directly from you, if you're willing. And I promise, nothing you say will get you in trouble. Prophetic dreams aren't your fault—they're just messages that your brain receives because of your divine heritage."
"Like... like getting mail?" Harry asked.
"Exactly like getting mail," Hades confirmed. "Except the mail is dreams and the mailman is the universe."
"That's a weird mailman."
"The universe is a weird mailman," Hades agreed solemnly. "Very unreliable delivery times, questionable message content, and absolutely no customer service line."
Harry giggled, which was apparently what Hades had been going for, and James had to grudgingly admit the death god was pretty good with kids.
Harry began describing what he'd experienced in as much detail as his young mind could recall.
The dream had involved Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, though it looked different from the pictures Harry had seen—older, more damaged, existing simultaneously in multiple time periods like a photograph that had been exposed multiple times.
"So like... like looking through a window but seeing different times all at once?" Harry tried to explain, making layering gestures with his small hands.
"Time-displaced imagery," Hades noted, writing in his ominous journal. "Continue."
There was fire, but it was wrong fire—purple flames that spread through stone like water, that consumed people but left buildings standing, that felt personal and directed rather than accidental.
"Purple fire is not normal fire," James muttered to Lily.
"Very observant," Lily whispered back.
"I'm just saying, that's concerning. Fire is supposed to be orange. Maybe blue if you're fancy. Purple is off-brand."
"Everything about this is off-brand."
"Can you two stop commenting like sports announcers?" Hades asked without looking up from his notes.
"Sorry," they said in unison.
"Thank you."
And throughout the dream, Harry explained, there was Hades' voice—or something that sounded like Hades' voice—saying something about choices. About children who would have to choose between protecting the world and saving the people they loved. About prophecies that couldn't be broken but could be redirected, like trains that could switch tracks but couldn't stop moving. About the importance of understanding that futures were not fixed until the moment when they became present, like Schrödinger's cat but with more apocalypse.
"I didn't understand most of it," Harry admitted. "But it felt *really* important. Like... like when you tell me something is important and I need to remember it, except bigger. Way bigger."
"You did an excellent job remembering," Hades said gently. "That's actually a very detailed description."
"It's not a prophecy," Hades announced once Harry had finished, closing his journal with a decisive snap. "It's a message. A warning about what *could* happen if certain choices are made. But not a fixed future—more like a possibility, a branching path that exists depending on how decisions play out."
"So it might not happen?" Harry asked hopefully, and James' heart broke a little at the desperate optimism in his son's voice.
"It might not happen," Hades confirmed. "Or it might happen differently than you saw. Or it might happen exactly as you saw but with different outcomes because different people made different choices. The future is complicated and messy and responds very poorly to instructions."
"That's not very reassuring," James said.
"Prophecy is rarely reassuring," Hades replied. "That's sort of the defining characteristic. If prophecies were reassuring, they'd be called 'nice promises' instead."
"I hate that that makes sense."
"Most people do."
"What does it mean?" Lily asked, and James could hear the controlled panic in her voice—the tone she used when she was trying very hard not to frighten Harry but was absolutely terrified herself. "What choices is this referring to? Whose choices?"
"I don't know yet," Hades admitted, and James appreciated that he wasn't trying to bullshit them with false confidence. "And that's actually important—Harry's dream was incomplete, fragmentary, suggesting it's not a complete prophecy but rather a warning about something still being decided. The universe sometimes sends these kinds of messages when multiple possible futures are converging, like a cosmic 'heads up, shit might get weird.'"
"Can you please not swear in front of my five-year-old?" Lily asked.
"I've heard worse," Harry said helpfully.
"That's not reassuring, Harry."
"Shadow taught me some bad words."
"The *phoenix* taught you bad words?"
"She chirps them. I translated."
"We're tabling this conversation," James announced, before Lily could start interrogating their son about feline profanity. "Hades, what do we do about the prophetic dream situation?"
"The fact that the message came through to Harry suggests it's important for him to understand," Hades continued, "but the specific meaning might not be apparent until he's older. Possibly much older."
"So we're telling our five-year-old that he has prophetic abilities and sometimes he's going to dream about potential disasters?" James asked, hearing how absolutely *insane* that sounded even as he said it. "That's the plan? 'Hey sport, you're psychic now, try not to have nightmares about the apocalypse, see you at breakfast'?"
"Well when you phrase it like *that*, it sounds bad," Hades said.
"How else would I phrase it?!"
"More... diplomatically?"
"I'm sorry, is there a *diplomatic* way to tell someone their kindergartener can see the future?"
"James," Lily said. "Breathe."
"I'm breathing!"
"Breathe *quieter*."
"We're telling him," Hades said firmly, "that demigods sometimes experience dreams that are more real than normal dreams. We're preparing him for the reality that his divine heritage means he might occasionally perceive things about the future that other people can't. And we're establishing *now* that when those dreams happen, he should talk to his parents and we can help him understand what he's experienced. We're giving him tools and support, not just dumping cosmic responsibility on him and walking away."
"Oh," James said. "That's... actually pretty reasonable."
"I'm occasionally reasonable."
"Don't let it go to your head."
"Wouldn't dream of it."
"Because there's going to be a next time," Lily said flatly, and it wasn't a question.
"Almost certainly," Hades confirmed, because apparently the universe believed in establishing patterns. "Prophetic sensitivity is part of demigod development. Harry will experience more dreams like this as he grows older. They might be warnings, they might be divine messages, they might occasionally be things that don't end up manifesting because the choices that would have led to that future were made differently. It's like having a spam filter for possible realities."
"This is terrifying," James said.
"It absolutely is," Hades agreed without any attempt at false reassurance, and James appreciated that he wasn't trying to sugarcoat the situation. "But it's also manageable. We establish protocols for how to handle prophetic dreams when they occur. We help Harry understand that experiencing these dreams doesn't mean he's responsible for preventing whatever they warn about—he's receiving information, not instructions. We teach him to interpret the messages without becoming overwhelmed by them. We make it clear that he's not alone in this."
"So basically we're teaching him dream therapy," Lily said.
"That's one way to describe it."
"Is there a book for this? Please tell me there's a book. I need a book. Give me a book."
"There are several books, actually," Hades said, and James could have kissed him. "I'll have them sent over."
"Of course there are books," James muttered, feeling his anxiety downgrade from "existential crisis" to "manageable panic." "Why wouldn't there be books about teaching five-year-olds to interpret prophetic visions? Probably a whole series. With workbooks."
"The books are actually designed for older demigods," Hades said. "Usually teenagers who are first developing their prophetic abilities. But I'll include simplified versions with pictures."
"Pictures of what? Prophetic dream interpretation flowcharts?"
"Essentially, yes. And some helpful diagrams about the difference between 'prophetic warning' and 'regular nightmare where you forgot to study for a test.'"
"That's a real diagram?"
"It's a surprisingly common question."
"I hate everything about this conversation," James said, but with less heat than before because at least they had a plan now.
"James," Lily said in her warning tone—the one that meant he was approaching the limit of acceptable crisis processing.
"I'm just expressing my feelings about our son developing prophetic abilities before he can tie his own shoes."
"I can tie my shoes!" Harry protested.
"You can tie them *wrong*," James corrected. "Those are slip-on knots at best."
"They stay tied!"
"They stay tied until they don't, and then I'm chasing you through the house with shoelaces."
"That's a *you* problem."
"It's really not."
"That's fair," Hades acknowledged, interrupting before James could start a full debate about shoelace competency. "This is a lot to process."
"You think?" James asked.
"I know. That's why I'm going to give you time to process it while I prepare the materials. We'll meet again in a few days to discuss the protocols in detail."
"Protocols," Lily repeated. "We're going to have protocols for prophetic dreams."
"You already have protocols for demigod training, divine manifestations, and mistweaving practice," Hades pointed out. "This is just adding one more system to your existing framework."
"Our existing framework is *chaos*," James said.
"Yes, but it's *organized* chaos. There's a difference."
"Is there though?"
"Absolutely. Organized chaos has labeled binders."
---
Over the following weeks, they did exactly that—established protocols, had conversations with Harry about what prophetic dreams meant, and worked with Hades to develop techniques for Harry to use when he experienced them again.
The protocols were actually pretty straightforward:
1. Wake up
2. Tell parents immediately (even if it's 3 AM and they look like zombies)
3. Write down or draw what you remember
4. Talk to Hades about it
5. Don't panic
"That last one is for all of us," James said when Hades presented the list, which he'd printed out and laminated like it was a fire safety poster.
"It's an important step," Hades agreed.
"Is it working?"
"Not remotely."
"Okay, just checking. Because I'm still panicking."
"We're all still panicking," Lily said. "The protocol just gives us something to do *while* panicking."
"It's panic with structure," Hades explained. "Much better than unstructured panic."
"Is it though?" James asked.
"Yes," both Hades and Lily said in unison.
"Fine. I trust your panic expertise."
They also established a dream journal for Harry—a special notebook where he could write or draw anything he remembered from prophetic dreams. It had protective enchantments that would preserve the memories even if Harry forgot them later, which seemed both useful and deeply concerning.
"Why would he forget them?" James asked when Hades explained the enchantments.
"Prophetic dreams often fade from memory faster than normal dreams," Hades said, setting the journal on the kitchen table. "The conscious mind tries to protect itself from information it's not ready to process. It's like when you watch a horror movie and your brain immediately says 'nope, not keeping that image, deleting immediately.'"
"So his brain might delete the prophetic visions?"
"Exactly. The enchantments ensure the information is preserved even if Harry's brain decides it would rather not remember purple fire consuming his future school."
"That's... actually pretty thoughtful."
"I've been doing this for several millennia. I've learned a few things about managing prophetic gifts."
"How many demigods have you trained in prophecy interpretation?"
"Enough that I have a standardized protocol and color-coded reference materials."
"The color-coding is really your signature move, isn't it?" James said. "Like, that's your brand. Hades: God of Death and Color-Coded Organization."
"Organization is important when dealing with divine matters."
"I respect that. I also respect that your organizational system is better than mine."
"Most people's organizational systems are better than yours, James."
"Wow. Okay. Attacked by the God of Death in my own kitchen."
"You left your filing system in our bedroom," Lily added. "It's just a pile of papers."
"It's an *organic* filing system!"
"It's chaos."
"Organized chaos!"
"It's just chaos, James."
The second prophetic dream came about three weeks later, and this time Harry didn't wake up screaming, which James considered significant progress in their cosmic parenting journey.
He came downstairs after having had it, found Lily in the kitchen making breakfast, and calmly reported that he'd dreamed about his sister doing something that involved creating a construct so powerful that it attracted the attention of someone important.
"Someone important like who?" Lily asked carefully, trying to understand what her three-year-old daughter might be capable of doing that would attract important attention. "Like important how? Prime Minister important? God important? 'Oh no the universe is paying attention' important?"
"Didn't see clearly," Harry said, settling at the table and reaching for toast with the casual demeanor of someone who was getting used to prophetic visions. "But felt important. Felt like... like someone who usually stays away was paying attention. Like Rose did something that made person think she worth paying attention to."
"Rose is *three*," Lily said weakly. "What could she possibly do that would attract that kind of attention? She can barely reach the counter."
"Don't know," Harry admitted, spreading jam on his toast with the careful concentration of a five-year-old who'd been told seventeen times to not get jam on everything. "Dream was fuzzy about it. But needed to tell. Dream felt important to tell."
"You're doing exactly right by telling us," Lily assured him, even as her brain was racing through possibilities and none of them were good. "Did you write it in your dream journal?"
"Did drawing," Harry said proudly. "Couldn't remember all words, but drew what Rose's construct looked like."
"Can you show me?"
Harry retrieved his dream journal from where he'd left it on the counter—another sign of growing responsibility, James thought, that he was actually keeping track of his prophetic vision notebook—and flipped to the most recent page. The drawing was crude, definitely five-year-old level artistic ability, but clear enough: Rose surrounded by translucent creatures that were significantly larger and more detailed than anything she'd created so far. And in the background, a shadowy figure that was watching with what could only be described as intense interest.
"That's... actually pretty detailed," Lily said, studying the drawing. "This is good work, Harry."
"Dream was very clear about Rose's construct," Harry explained. "Less clear about the watching person. But the feeling was very strong. Person was important. Person being interested was important."
James wandered into the kitchen at that moment, saw Lily examining the dream journal with the kind of concerned expression that meant something cosmic was happening, and immediately said, "What happened?"
"Harry had another prophetic dream," Lily said.
"Oh great. What's the apocalypse looking like this time? Nuclear? Biological? Cosmic? I need to know what supplies to stock."
"It's not about the apocalypse."
"Oh, so we've downgraded from apocalypse to regular disaster? That's progress!"
"It's about Rose."
James' humor evaporated instantly. "Is she okay?"
"She's fine. She's still asleep. The dream was about her future abilities."
"Oh good. Just future cosmic abilities. That's fine then." James poured himself coffee with the shaky hands of someone running on three hours of sleep and pure anxiety. "Totally normal. Nothing concerning about our toddler having cosmic abilities that attract attention from important mysterious figures."
"James."
"I'm being supportive!"
"You're being sarcastic."
"I'm being *supportively sarcastic*. It's multitasking."
"Is it helpful multitasking?"
"That's debatable."
They contacted Hades later that morning to discuss Harry's second prophetic dream. He arrived within twenty minutes, which James suspected meant he'd either been expecting the call or had established some kind of alert system for "Potter family prophetic emergencies."
He listened carefully to the description, examined Harry's drawing with the critical eye of someone who'd seen about seventeen million prophetic visions, and seemed thoughtful about the implications.
"This is interesting," he said finally, which in Hades-speak meant "this is concerning but I'm trying not to alarm you immediately."
"Interesting how?" James asked. "Interesting like 'oh how curious' or interesting like 'oh gods we're all doomed'?"
"Interesting like 'this is part of a pattern,'" Hades clarified. "The first dream was about a potential future involving Hogwarts and dangerous choices. This dream is about Rose's developing abilities attracting attention. They might not be connected, or they might be part of a larger pattern."
"A larger pattern of what?" James asked warily. "Please don't say 'cosmic doom.' I'm not emotionally ready for cosmic doom before lunch."
"Of your children's futures intersecting with significant events," Hades said. "Both Harry and Rose have considerable power and divine heritage. It's possible—perhaps even likely—that they're going to be involved in things that matter on a larger scale than just their personal lives."
"They're five and three," Lily pointed out, with the kind of dangerous calm that suggested she was about three seconds from starting a fight with the concept of destiny itself.
"Now, yes. But prophetic dreams often show possibilities years in the future. Harry's dream about Hogwarts likely won't be relevant for at least six years. This dream about Rose might be even further out—possibly a decade or more."
"So we're just supposed to wait and see if our children end up involved in cosmic events?" James asked. "That's the plan? Just... sit around and hope they don't accidentally become the focus of universal attention?"
"You're supposed to prepare them as best you can, support them in developing their abilities safely, and trust that when the time comes, they'll be ready to make good choices," Hades corrected gently. "That's all any parent can do."
"That's terrible advice," James said.
"It's *realistic* advice," Hades countered. "You can't protect them from everything. You can only prepare them to handle what comes."
"I hate that you're right."
"Most people do. I've made peace with it."
"How?"
"Several thousand years of practice."
"That tracks."
Over the following months, Harry had occasional prophetic dreams—some about small, insignificant things (he dreamed about Shadow getting stuck in a tree three days before it happened, which James considered both hilarious and proof that prophetic abilities had a sense of humor), some about larger, more concerning possibilities (a dream about wizarding government that none of them could quite interpret but that involved a lot of ominous paperwork, which somehow felt very accurate).
Each time, he followed the protocol: wake up, tell parents, write it down, talk to Hades, don't panic.
The "don't panic" part was still a work in progress for everyone involved.
"I'm getting better at the not panicking," James said one evening after Harry had calmly reported a dream about a talking hat that sorted children into houses, which seemed concerning for reasons James couldn't quite articulate but definitely felt in his soul.
"You literally said 'oh gods what now' when he walked into the kitchen," Lily pointed out.
"But I said it *calmly*."
"You said it while dropping a plate."
"That was unrelated."
"Was it though?"
"Probably not," James admitted. "But in my defense, I didn't break the plate."
"It hit the floor."
"But it didn't *break*. That's improvement."
"I'm setting the bar very low for you."
"I appreciate that."
Rose, meanwhile, continued developing her mistweaving abilities without any awareness that her brother was occasionally dreaming about her future accomplishments. She created increasingly sophisticated constructs, practiced maintaining multiple creatures simultaneously, and occasionally created something so impressive that both James and Lily wondered if Harry's prophetic dream was closer to manifesting than they'd thought.
"Did you see the guardian wolf she made yesterday?" James asked Lily one night, after they'd finally gotten both children to bed. "It was almost solid. I could barely see through it."
"I know," Lily said. "Hades said that's significant progress."
"Is it the kind of progress that would attract important attention?"
"Maybe? Probably? I don't know. I'm not an expert in what kind of mistweaving attracts cosmic attention." Lily poured herself tea with the exhausted movements of someone who'd spent the day monitoring for signs of impending prophetic fulfillment. "Is there a cosmic attention threshold? Like, is there a specific level of mistweaving that triggers universal interest?"
"That's a very specific area of expertise that I wish we didn't need."
"Welcome to our lives."
"I've been here for five years and I'm still not used to it."
"None of us are used to it," Lily said. "We're just getting better at pretending we are."
"Is that healthy?"
"Probably not."
"That's comforting."
"I thought it might be."
As summer faded into autumn and Harry's sixth birthday approached, James reflected on how much their lives had changed since that first prophetic dream.
They'd gone from "our son can manipulate gold" to "our son can manipulate gold AND occasionally sees possible futures AND we have protocols for handling prophetic visions" which was definitely a development in their parenting journey.
They'd established protocols for handling prophetic visions, learned to interpret Harry's dream journal drawings (Harry's artistic style was "enthusiastic" rather than "technically accurate"), developed relationships with Hades that included regular consultations about divine prophecy, and generally accepted that their lives were never going to be normal.
But they'd also managed to keep both children happy, healthy, and developing their abilities safely. Harry wasn't traumatized by his prophetic dreams—he was learning to handle them as part of his divine heritage, with the casual acceptance of a kid who'd grown up with weird being the baseline. Rose was creating increasingly sophisticated constructs without any fear or shame about her abilities.
And the Potter family was navigating cosmic complications with approximately as much grace as anyone could reasonably expect, which is to say: barely any grace at all, but at least they were doing it together.
"You know what's weird?" James said to Lily one evening, watching Harry practice gold manipulation while Rose created a translucent fox that chased its own tail around the living room.
"Everything?" Lily suggested immediately.
"Well yes, but specifically: I think we're actually *handling* this."
"We're definitely handling this."
"Our son has prophetic dreams about future disasters and we're handling it."
"Our daughter creates semi-real creatures and we're handling that too."
"We're either amazing parents or completely delusional."
"Can't it be both?" Lily asked. "I feel like it's both."
"I think it might be both," James agreed. "Like, we're handling this through a combination of competence and denial."
"That's most of parenting though."
"Is it?"
"Yes. The handbook just doesn't say it outright."
"There's a handbook?"
"James, we've had children for five years. There's no handbook."
"I know. I was being hopeful."
"Then we're doing great."
"Are we though?"
"Harry's happy. Rose is happy. Nobody's traumatized beyond normal childhood levels. No furniture has been destroyed in six months. By any reasonable metric, we're succeeding."
"The bar for success is 'no destroyed furniture'?" James asked.
"The bar for success is raising happy, healthy children who happen to have cosmic abilities," Lily corrected. "The furniture thing is just a bonus metric."
"I can live with that."
"Good. Because that's what we're doing."
"What if we mess up?"
"We will mess up. We're messing up right now, probably. But as long as we're trying our best and the kids know we love them, we're doing okay."
"That's... actually pretty wise."
"I have my moments."
"You have a lot of moments."
"I know. It's one of my best qualities."
And honestly? James thought that was pretty much the best they could ask for.
Even if it did mean occasional prophetic dreams about purple fire and important cosmic figures paying attention to their toddler's magical constructs and talking hats that apparently sorted children (which, now that James thought about it, seemed like a really inefficient educational system but who was he to judge).
That was just life in the Potter household now.
Weird, cosmic, occasionally prophetic, furniture-preserving life.
But life nonetheless.
And if they were doing it with more sarcasm and slightly less dignity than they'd imagined, well... at least they were doing it together.
"Hey Lily?" James said.
"Yeah?"
"When Harry's prophetic dream about Hogwarts becomes relevant, can we at least *try* to handle it without me dropping any plates?"
"I'll add it to the protocol."
"Thanks."
"But I'm not making any promises."
"Fair enough."
---
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